Page 72 of Rumor Has It

“Sure thing, Mr. Fox.”

He’s cool. I like Andre. I twist the car key off my keychain and hand it over.

“Thanks. Drop the key through my mail slot when you’re done.” I gesture to my passenger seat and the pretty brunette slumped there. “I’m going to have my hands full.”

“No problem.”

I lift my date into my arms. She stirs enough to bury her face in my neck and mutter, “Dizzy.”

“If you feel sick tell me,” I say.

She responds with a snore.

In the elevator, I punch in the passcode to my floor and say a prayer that the woman in my arms isn’t motion sick. We reach my penthouse floor incident-free, thank goodness.

She’s deadweight, and I’m in shape, so it’s not an insult to her that I have trouble juggling her in my arms while sliding a key into the lock. The second I succeed in letting us into my apartment, she wakes up with a jolt.

“Oh God.”

Oh shit.

“Hang on, honey.” I rush her to the bathroom and deposit her onto the floor in time for her to make an incredible retching sound and puke into the toilet. A pitiful groan echoes in the toilet bowl. I gather her hair in one hand and rub her back as she does it again.

Another pathetic whimper precedes a few dry heaves, but I’m just glad that’s over for her.

After she flushes, she reaches for the toilet paper. I turn away to give her privacy as she blows her nose. A muffled groan follows. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry I left you at the mercy of Jackson’s Burke-bombers.”

“Ugh. Don’t say it.” She grabs another toilet paper wad and dabs the mascara from under her eyes. Then she looks around, acquainting herself with her surroundings. “Bet you’ve held a girl’s hair a time or ten.”

“Mostly my mom’s,” I admit sadly.

I help her stand and then pull open a drawer where I keep spare, unopened toothbrushes. “Towels in the cabinet if you want to grab a shower. Or if you feel like falling into bed, that’s fine, too. I’ll get you settled. Just yell.”

She’s standing there in her cute shorts, her hair rumpled, lipstick gone, complexion a little green. All I can think about is how beautiful she is. Even now. Even in pieces.

“Thanks, Fox.”

“You’re welcome, Kitty Cat.” I pull the door to, but before I shut it, I warn her, “I’m going to check on you every five minutes to make sure you don’t pass out in here.”

“Believe it or not, I’m feeling much better.”

“I believe it. I’ve been Burke-bombed before.”

Catarina

Parts of last night come to me in strobe-light fashion. Some of it blessedly black. Like: How did I end up wearing Barrett’s T-shirt? Did I have help washing my hair? Other parts I remember way, way too vividly. Stacie and the porch swing. Shots. Puking while Barrett held my hair.

Groan.

Why do I have to remember that part?

I swallow the two Advil with a swig from the water bottle on Barrett’s nightstand. I do a double-take at the clock. Eight A.M.? I couldn’t even sleep in for a hangover? I accept my fate and climb out of bed. I dress in last night’s shorts and T-shirt, grateful that I didn’t puke on my clothes.

Shuffling from the bedroom to the living room, I spot Barrett in the kitchen. He’s leaning over his laptop, squinting, his lips moving as he reads the words. Wonder how long he’s been up? I take in the scene since he hasn’t noticed me yet. White countertop and cabinets, dark gray backsplash and stainless steel appliances—and him sitting in the center of that elegance, bare feet, cargo shorts, T-shirt.

He’s a sexy specimen, and despite everything we’ve done together I feel a wave of shame for him having to deal with me drunk.

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